Technically I’m Still Grounded

When I was 25 years old, my dad grounded me. I was married to my first husband and nursing my first baby at the time.
For the most part, I didn’t fight my restriction. I deserved it. I’d had it coming for awhile. He’d waited nine long years to award this punishment.
My dad worked for one of those agencies that goes by three capital letters. He worked at a location that officially doesn’t exist. Most of the time, he lied to people about what he did for a living. But we knew him as an “operating engineer”.
When you grow up like this, in a small town with other kids growing up like this, you really don’t think much of it. I believe a lot of small towns are designed this way on purpose. We were pretty used to seeing funny things in the skies at night, and sonic booms were a common occurrence. Most people knew better than to keep fine glass keepsakes on shaky shelves. And picture frames were often bolted to walls.
To this day, I sleep better near air bases.
Dad decided to ground me because he could finally tell us about some amazing camera equipment installed on aircraft that had been developed many years earlier. In fact, one of the ways they had tested the equipment… was on Me.
I famously had an old muscle car. A ’73 Chevy Nova complete with a police intercepter 350 engine and bench seating for 10 teenagers. I would’ve gotten into more trouble with the authorities if the cops could’ve actually been fast enough to catch me.
One night, my little sister and I couldn’t resist breaking in the fresh new paint on the running track around the high school football field. I also included a few grass donuts in the middle of the field for good measure. We laughed, and got away with it. Who would suspect two cute little girls?

Turns out, the following morning, dad arrived to his “office” with a shiny new poster above his workbench. A very crisp, full-color image of his two daughters blazing a trail through the school’s property in a very recognizable old car. Kicking up dust. Breaking pieces of cement barriers. My dumb sister sticking her head and arms out the passenger window.
He could say nothing.
His coworkers laughed their asses off. Whenever he tore up the poster, they printed a new one. For nearly a decade, he lived with the shame of having a delinquent daughter, and no way to even punish her or sabotage her vehicle without rousing suspicion.
Until many long years later, when the camera equipment was declassified just enough so he could tell his family that such fine cameras existed.
The best part was, he was still so pissed! Like, he was really mad when he told me the story of the poster. And how he couldn’t believe I would be so asinine.
Sadly, we can’t show anyone the poster.
But I can promise you this: That car was fucken FAST.
And I can’t go out tonight, you guys. Still grounded.
